


Brood Mare

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Angsty lust, Authority Figures, Consensual Infidelity, Dark!Arthur, Dubious Consent, F/M, Het!sex, Pregnancy Kink, Prima nocta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you love someone, you sacrifice anything for their sake. Gwen knows this. For Lancelot's sake - to ensure that he retains the trust of his Liege - Gwen gives herself to the King on her wedding night.</p>
<p>Written for this KMM prompt: Gwen is Lancelot's fiancée but Arthur makes her spend the wedding night with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brood Mare

_I'll always be your lover,  
I'll always be your shoulder,  
And I don't care how far they say we've wandered._

Heather Dale, _For Guinevere_

*

Her new husband, only hers since four hours, leads her to the door of the King's chamber. She smiles at him, meeting his dark eyes despite the tears that cloud hers. Dressed in embroidered silk, she is an expensive gift wrapped for her Liege lord's pleasure. 

As the wife of Lancelot, the noblest and poorest of knights, she would have been wed in linen were it not for the King. The weightless burden of her priceless veil, the Pendragon red ruby nestling in her cleavage, the gold and lands given her for her dowry. She would give it all away and wed Lancelot in her shift if she could. If it meant she could spend their wedding night with him, and him alone.

But it is not to be. Her bridal bed is to be the King's. The one she has so often helped Merlin make.

"Gwen, my darling." Lancelot's voice, with the faintest of accent from the foreign lands in which he was born, is a beacon to her. This man, lithe and delicate as he may look, is her tower of strength. There is _nothing_ he would not do for her, nothing he would not sacrifice. Even now, he reads her mind and reassures her.

She folds her arms around him. When he embraces her, one hand cupped at the base of her skull and the other resting underneath her shoulder blades, she is safe for a moment.

And she _knows_. They have faced worse. Together, they were thrown to the Wildereon. They survived that time, just like they will survive this time. It is not for them to complain.

Carefully, she draws away from him. She must be strong. As a blacksmith's daughter she knows that steel is hardened in fire. Like the steel, she will be strengthened by this ordeal. Underneath the vulnerable cover of her skin she imagines her soul as being shiny and unyielding, like a damascene blade.

"This too shall pass," she says, forcing herself to be strong.

This sacrifice is hers, the one only she can make for him. She will ensure that he stays in his King's favour. So that he will never have to stoop to entertain men like Hengist ever again. She swallows a last time and knocks at the door.

When Merlin opens, Lancelot kisses her hand gallantly. She sees unshed tears in his beautiful eyes. For a moment, she almost allows weakness to overcome her. Almost tells Lancelot to make the horses ready so that they may flee. Then she remembers her duty and allows Merlin to take her hand and lead her to her doom.

The door closes behind her, and a part of her leaves. What is left is little more than an empty husk, enough to please the King, but not much more. The well-known chamber is lit by candlelight, and there is a new white cover on the bed. There are vases full of lilies. They scent the air, mixing with the smell of orange flower water from her clothes.

Merlin's eyes are sorrowful. She knows he tried to talk the King out of this, and knows that he feels he has failed her. 

"It's not your fault." Her voice feels rough.

Wordlessly, he nods. They stand opposite each other for a heartbeat before he reaches for the pins that hold her veil to the elaborate arrangement of plaits and curls of her hair. Merlin's hand are deft and clever, having helped her so many times before with all matters of similar tasks. Her dress is equal in complexity to her hair, but he never fumbles with any of the laces or the unexpected number of pins hidden in the folds. When she is down to her shift, made of linen so fine it must have been weaved by a spider, he takes down her hair and combs it until it shines.

Now she is ready. The realisation makes her tremble, makes the blood run like icy currents in her veins. Merlin hugs her closely, pressing his lips chastely to her brow. She is glad for it, for having him at her side until the very end.

"No-one loves him like I do, Gwen, but if he-- If he hurts you, he'll live to regret it."

She touches his hand reassuringly. "I'll be fine. He's not a bad person, not really. He's just used to being given everything he wants."

Merlin nods. He knows better than anyone. Once it was Gwen who had to comfort _him_. When Merlin was a boy of fifteen, just arrived from Ealdor, and the Crown Prince decided he wanted Merlin for his bed.

When the door open and the King enters, Merlin hugs Gwen closely and looks to the King.

"Arthur."

"You will not join us tonight, Merlin. Stay in the antechamber, and I'll call for you to take Gwen back to her husband when we're finished here."

Merlin looks as if he might retort, but stays silent and only nods his head in the merest mockery of a bow before he leaves.

And so they are alone, in a way they have not really been since Arthur stayed in her house. It seems aeons have passed since then. Yet, he is very much the same. Golden hair, sweet boyish face. Eyes the colour of forget-me-nots. Is she a bad person to feel this tenderness for him, when she has just married the man she loves above all else?

The sheer, white shirt he wears gives him the guise of an angel. The faint sunburn on the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones is gilding an already perfect form. An idol to revere. She has never loved him romantically, and he might never have loved her like he loves his Kingdom, his knights and Merlin. But at this very moment she lusts for him just as fiercely as he lusts for her, and it is enough.

It is easy to let him pull off her shift, to take his trembling hands and place them on her breasts, see how pleasingly pale they are against her caramel skin. It is more than easy to kiss him, to invade his mouth ruthlessly with her tongue, to pull him down above her. Before, their kisses were always ruined by the fear of giving herself to a man she did not truly love. Tonight she is fearless, her womanhood already wet for him as she locks her legs around his still clothed form. She can feel his hardness as he ruts against her, and it makes her wild, this certain knowledge of shared want.

Then he fumbles with the laces of his trousers, and she realises that this is all he will do. Take her while he is fully dressed and then leave her. She grunts and tries to push him away, but he is stronger. He takes her struggling arms and manages to push them over her head. It is not even difficult for him to gather both of her wrists in one hand and hold them there.

With his free hand he reaches down for her cleft, letting a blunt finger slip in between the swollen lips to feel her moistness. She whimpers, and curses herself for it. He smiles a crooked smile.

"Is this wetness all for me, Guinevere?"

She shakes her head. "No. Merlin was unexpectedly good at undressing me, my lord."

He laughs boyishly. "But why are you struggling then? If you want this too?"

"I want to see you, Sire. I don't want you to fuck me without even undressing."

He blushes prettily. " _Guinevere!_ Where on earth did you pick up language like that?"

"I live rather close to the tavern. Surely you must have noticed that, my lord? And servants are not always as genteel as you seem to think."

"Apparently not."

"So undress. _Sire_."

"I thought you wanted this over as quick as possible."

"I did. But now... Now I _don't_." She feels enchanted.

He nods pensively, sits up to take off his socks and boots and trousers and underthings. His shirt is left on for her to remove, which she does gladly. The thin cloth glides smoothly over his muscled frame, making her breath hitch. He is perfection, from the broad expanse of his shoulders to his pale, shapely thighs. And his _cock_. It stands up stiffly. Big, but not as dangerously, impossibly big as she had feverishly hoped and dreaded it would be.

It is evident that he is fully aware of his own beauty when he lies down on his side, propped up on an elbow. She kneels next to him, her hand seeking his erection of its own volition. It is surprisingly hot in her hand, and hard, as if there really is steel inside. He puts a large hand round her own small one and moves them up and down. She sees the swollen head of his cock glide in and out of the silky skin.

"This is how men pleasure themselves," Arthur says, voice already rough.

She lies down to face him, still pumping her hand. Without really thinking, she drapes a leg over his hip, leaving her own sex exposed. It is easy to touch herself like this, while touching him. It seems to please him too, so much so he frees his hand and reaches out to touch her.

Normally, she mostly touches the delicious little nub when doing this on her own. Sometimes she sticks a finger inside. Only during heatwaves, when she is too hot to think properly, does she move it and wonder what a man would feel like. Arthur plunges a finger in, and although it shocks her, it is pleasant too. He fucks her with his finger as she pumps him, both of them breathing rapidly.

Then he stops. "I need to be inside you," he says.

"I believe that was part of the bargain, my lord."

It takes hardly a second for him to roll her over on her back and position himself between her thighs. He kisses her breasts tenderly and then aligns their bodies and start pushing in. The pain is less than she expected, it feels tight and there is a burn, but her body wants him more than her mind does, and accommodates gladly. She bites her lip and let him bury himself fully in her.

"I had forgotten how _wet_ it was," Arthur says, his voice strained. "Does it hurt much?"

Gwen shakes her head. "Only a little, my lord."

He kisses her, the strain of holding back making his entire body tense. "It will be fine. Can I move now?"

"My body is yours to use, my lord." The thrill of submission makes her sex spasm around him.

He moans helplessly and starts to pull out before pushing in again. When she looks at his eyes, the pupils are blown and he looks drunk. Slowly, like magic, the pain inside her metamorphoses into delight. His movements, back and forth, in and out, are like the beatings of waves. Dissolving her, crumbling her defences. She sighs and locks her arms around his neck.

But he is determined to show her more of this unexplored pleasure. Carefully getting out of her embrace, he sits up and lift one of her legs so that it is draped over his shoulder. It feels as if he has opened her further, each thrust giving her more pleasure like this.

When he starts massaging the nub between her thighs again she feels her climax building. Before long, it catches up with her and she spends herself. The world goes black for an unknown length of time. Her King is still hard in her when she comes back to herself. He is looking at her intently, his gaze managing to be both smug and feral.

"Can I finish, or do you want me to pull out?"

Her sex feels sore and abused, the pain no longer dulled by pleasure. She wants to curl up into a ball and forget about everything for an hour, wants to lie untouched and find herself again. The thought of him inside her sickens her a little now, makes her feel less herself.

Then there is the other thing. Her fear of leaving this chamber with royal seed quickening her womb. She knows from second hand the sickness and bleeding caused by potions meant to restore a woman's menses.

It is not how she wants to spend her first day as Lancelot's wife, and it could all be avoided if the King would pull out of her now. But he is her King and lord, and she must submit to him. Her suffering is unimportant if it means her husband will retain the King's trust. And for all the King has done for _her_ , she owes him this as well.

"You may continue if you wish, Sire."

He nods feverishly and then pulls out of her. It is an immense relief, like having a thorn pulled out of a wound. But he is not done with her yet. Hurriedly, he gets her onto her hands and knees, gripping her hips and pushing roughly inside her. She moans with the stabbing pain, which he seems to take as encouragement. He fucks her properly now, her body fully at his mercy. Each thrust is _deep_. It shocks her, at first, that the King should take her as a drunk would a whore, but she finds her bearings soon enough. She is a quick study. She falls down on one elbow and uses her free hand to rub at herself and numb the pain a little.

"God, yes," Arthur whispers behind her. "Touch yourself. I want you to come as I fill your virgin cunt with my seed."

His indecent words make wetness gush inside her, makes her tighten around him, as if she can pull him further in. 

"Oh, _Sire,_ " she says, and bites her lips before she compromises herself further.

It starts feeling good again. She is slick enough for it to be easy, and it feels as if he is brushing against something on her inside, somewhere between her navel and her mound. It is a delicious, sore feeling, completely unexpected. 

"Oh, Sire," she moans again, rocking back against him. Arthur gasps at that, fucks her harder, _harder_. Eventually the pleasure-pain of it is too much. "My lord!" she screams.

At that he spreads her buttocks, and she feels his thumb slide over her rear entrance. It shocks her, knowing only that it is the sort of things that men do to each other. When he pushes a finger into her it _burns_. But in her current state it only stokes her fire and she presses against him, forcing his finger deeper inside. She is sobbing now, whispering unknown curses and endearments. Falling apart in his devilishly skilled embrace.

She wonders if she will be able to stand up afterwards, or if Merlin will have to carry her broken, unconscious body back to Lancelot.

They climax together, her sex clamping furiously on him as he spurts his hot seed deep inside her, leaving something of himself inside a part of her that no-one has touched before. The intimacy of it is as sweet as it is frightening. He slips out of her easily, before kissing her rump and pulling her down to lie in his arms. 

"That wasn't so bad, was it, Guinevere?" Arthur's voice is mellowed now.

"It was good, Sire," she tells him, and it is not even a lie.

She falls asleep while he caresses her belly, soothing her.

When she wakes again, there is a faint light outside the drawn curtains. Her insides feel as if they have been turned into jelly, and she is sore and sticky. Her back is pressed intimately against the King's chest, his manhood needy against her. She lets him get her on her back and take her again. Arthur's movements are sleepy and he comes in her quickly, like she imagines a boy would.

They lie entwined after that, and she is nauseously aware of his seed trickling out of her. He pets her hair gently, looking so annoyingly handsome her heart aches. When he kisses her, his mouth feels as fresh as ever, not a hint of morning breath. No-one should be allowed that level of perfection, she thinks and feels dishevelled and uncouth in comparison.

She smiles shyly at him. "Are you pleased with me, my lord?"

He gives her a radiant smile and kisses her hand. "You are a wonder, Guinevere. I am a very lucky man."

"Then, if you have everything you wanted, my lord, may I go to my husband?"

He nods pleasantly. When she pulls off the covers to get dressed he puts his hand lovingly on her lower belly.

"Do you think I have given you something to remember me with?"

She blushes. "I don't know, Sire." He should not be saying these things, but she does not tell him off.

"As a King I need an heir, Guinevere. And I have no wife."

"I cannot be your Queen, my lord. I am married to another man, and I am a commoner."

He sighs. "I know. It's just that you are the only woman I desire. With most women-- I'm not sure I could even--" His voice trails off. "Merlin is a devoted spouse, Guinevere, but he cannot give me a child."

"But I cannot..." She does not know what to say.

He bends down to kiss her stomach, and even that makes her go soft. "I arranged to have the wedding at a time when your womb would be receptive to my seed."

She stares at him, feeling sick.

"You would only need to share my bed each night until we know for certain that you are pregnant with my son." He nuzzles at her again, and she cannot recoil.

He cups her mound in a large hand. It stirs something inside her. And still she cannot give in. Cannot bear the thought of people talking behind her back. Behind Lancelot's back. Somewhere inside herself, she is crying.

And then a finger parts her folds and does something wonderful, something that makes her melt a little bit. He chuckles at her reaction and bends down to kiss her there, lick her, as if she is not filthy with him. When he stuffs her with a finger, she spreads her legs and arches her back.

"Say yes, my Guinevere. Please say yes," Arthur says, lifting his head for a moment.

She does not. Only moans escape her as she bites her lip and refuses him. But Arthur is the King and he is used to getting what he wants. And he does, eventually. When she is on her arms and knees in front of him again and he is coaxing her consent out of her together with her pleasure. As she climaxes she screams her _yes_ over and over again before collapsing.

"Good girl," Arthur's voice is warm in her ear, where he lies, draped over her like a beast.

Afterwards, he holds her. Cradling her abused body and soothing her sobs. There is something distinctly possessive in the way he touches her still flat stomach. She tries to flinch from it, but her body betrays her, swayed as it is by him.

While her heart longs for Lancelot, her wanton womb only wants Arthur's seed, wants to be full and swollen with his child. Perhaps there is already something growing there. The beginnings of a little one. A son with his proud features softened by her curls and dark eyes.

She stares at the canopy of the bed, waiting for her King to fall asleep again before she dares to weep in earnest.


End file.
